


Household Archeology

by Beauteousmajesty



Series: On discovery [17]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Have not seen source content, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21577126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beauteousmajesty/pseuds/Beauteousmajesty
Summary: One thing the reveal has helped with is making it easier to get rid of the stuff in Denmark’s storage rooms. Norway’s been in there, they’re dangerous, but now they can have some academics to help them get rid of some of the things they’ve obtained over the last 2000 years.Tags will be added as they become relevant
Relationships: Denmark/Norway
Series: On discovery [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/913554
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	1. A Worthwhile Proposal

Sorting through your old stuff is never fun, most of it turns out to be tat that you don’t want but have no idea how to dispose of so you keep it anyway, jamming it into a box so that you can decide you still don’t want it next time you sort through your old stuff. 

Particularly for nations, this is a problem. How do you get rid of swords so ancient they would make an archeologist weep, or portraits that one of your old rulers had commissioned for you even though you never wanted it in the first place? Even the most minimalist of them end up with at least one room full of boxes of old stuff. 

Very few of them are minimalist, they hold on to things. Most of them have experienced periods of time where money was scarce, every possession had to be worked for by their people, and throwing those things away seems to dishonour them. 

Their possessions hold memories, Norway has boxes and boxes of letters that he’s received over the centuries, and he knows Denmark has more. Most of Norway’s stuff from between 1349 and 1814 lives in Denmark anyway, their collected stuff mingled together in hundreds of boxes and trunks. It’s a mess. Norway doesn’t go stuff sorting without company and he won’t stick at it long. 

There are no Swedish storage solutions in play, and it shows. Last time Norway opened one of the boxes in Denmark’s loft, he found Denmark’s copy of a crucial bit of 1400s legislation (which had been missing for a goodly while) stacked on top of a crumpled bunad (circa 1800 by Norway’s reckoning) with a fragile Viking dagger thrown in the box for good measure (probably Denmark’s but Norway wasn’t actually sure anymore).

After the reveal, most governments around the world received requests from cultural and historical researchers to let them document the lives of their particular nation. Norway’s government had been passing the requests along but sending back messages saying, ‘wait and see but probably not’ or something suchlike. Denmark was terrible at properly reading his emails so Norway had no idea if he was getting requests (his government starred the important ones for him).

It was one of those Saturdays when they were hanging around in a museum, looking at things, and varying between messing around and reminiscing, that one of the bolder researchers approached them. The young woman had all the markings of a PHD student (Denmark had earned enough of them for Norway to pick up on the signs immediately), as she asked them if (if it was no trouble) either of them had some sort of personal archive of historical data because she really had looked everywhere and it really would help with her research if only she could understand the bit of history she was researching a little better.

Norway considered it. Their storage was a mess. It would probably take over a month to even sort a fraction of it out fully, and perhaps more than this researcher’s lifetime to go through it all. It did need to be done though, perhaps they could make a start. He relayed this thought to Denmark who agreed, but thought that the academic community might think it was unfair if only a Norwegian academic got to look at their stuff, and proposed putting together a little team of researchers who’d focused on different eras.

In thinking about it, Norway realised it would take an enormous amount of paperwork to get the project off the ground. Risk assessments were incredibly necessary when Denmark was prone to sticking boxes just filled with cannonballs in his loft. They’d also have to get a measure of consent from all the other nations with stuff in Denmark’s loft (Iceland and the children in particular). It would also be a good idea to run it past all the other nations as a collective as it would be setting a precedent the others might be expected to follow. Both their governments would need to have a say in what was published and who was included, as even the interior of Denmark’s house was technically a high security area (mostly because of his habit of leaving important documents on the table).

It would be a lot of work, so they took down the name and contact details of the young researcher (Hanne), and told her they’d get back to her.

It was a month after the meeting in the museum that they were cleared to begin. Miraculously, everyone had said yes, and both Denmark and Norway had been given a reduced workload so that they could mainly focus on sorting stuff (rather than Storting stuff). 

They’d ended up with a team of five researchers/curators/archaeologists (Norway wasn’t an expert in academics, that was Denmark’s thing). There were two from Norway (Hanne and Jens), two from Denmark (Astrid and Aleksandra), and one Icelander (Einar). Iceland had also managed to wrangle some proper time in Copenhagen for visiting, so that he could help, and possibly feed embarrassing stories to academics.

Their little team were part of a much wider team of different museums’ workers who had all agreed to archive the objects that the nations were willing to gift them, but there was only a limited number of people who would fit inside the rooms.

There were at least four rooms in Denmark’s house just filled with stuff, as well as the loft and the basement. Not withstanding that they also had things lying around the house that they’d been holding on to for centuries. The plan was to go through each individual storage room in Denmark’s Copenhagen house, before visiting the other places he kept stuff and sorting those too, before moving up to go through Norway’s things, and perhaps, if they had time left, going over to Sweden to see the things of Norway’s he’d accumulated in 91 years.

It turned out that this was exactly the kind of project that people were happy to give you a research grant for, meaning that they would have their team for quite a while. Denmark was audibly excited about the whole affair, as he was with the prospect of any visitors. This time, he not only got regular visitors, he got Norway living with him for an indefinite amount of time and Iceland popping in now and again.

Denmark started the first morning off by taking a series of ‘before’ pictures of his storage rooms and posting them to Instagram, and introducing the project to his followers. The idea of sharing some of the things they found was something that he was particularly excited about. Their media had been excited about it too once they’d heard about the project, sending a request as to whether they could run a series of documentaries about it.

Denmark was thrilled. Norway was much less thrilled when Denmark woke him up to prepare for their incoming visitors, much fonder of their bed than spider-filled, dusty rooms. Norway had arrived late the night before, falling straight into Denmark’s bed after what seemed an excessive amount of making sure his government would be fine without him, with each department seeming to have some excuse to call him to visit them before he could leave for Denmark.

Once he was awake, he was a little more excited about the project once he realised he could wear comfortable clothes rather than the more formal attire that he wore to work. In the week prior to Norway’s arrival, Denmark had dug out some of the comfiest work clothes that Norway had left in Denmark for him to wear. 

The first of their researchers arrived when they were midway through breakfast, announced by a rather timid knock at the door. Denmark went racing away to let whichever one of them it was in, prepared to carry bags and make small talk. Norway watched him go, and resigned himself to living with a human golden retriever for the next week at least, sticking his spoon back into his porridge bowl with a noticeable clink.


	2. A Whole New Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to get to know some academics and also the inside of Denmark's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote dialogue, I don't usually do that.

Astrid had thought that she was prepared for working with nations. She’d worked on projects with many people with no problems, she had been comfortable appearing on Danish television as a historical expert as well as giving lectures to a room full of children.

Standing outside Denmark’s door she was less than certain. She’d never done archeology where the subjects she was studying would be in the room. She really did want to do this project, but the potential for putting her foot in her mouth during it were immense.

She’d briefly met the other members of the team, who she’d only known by name before, as they all moved in different academic circles. This whole project was going to be very unfamiliar.

Adjusting her bags in her hand she raised the other to knock, wondering if anyone would ever be able to hear her in the large house. She resigned herself to the knock and waited.

There was a brief pause in which she assumed that nobody had heard her, and she stood awkwardly on the doorstep. It had gotten to the point where she was thinking about knocking again when the door swung open and she was suddenly face to face with Denmark.

‘Astrid! You don’t mind if I call you Astrid, do you? Come on in. How was the train ride over?’ He was already talking as he reached out a hand to relieve her of one of her bags. Astrid found herself bowled over at the rapidity with which he talked, too taken aback at the intensity of it that any adequate response about her journey was suddenly absent from her mind.

She followed him into the house, kicking off her shoes in the pile by the door and following him up the stairs. Denmark chattered all the way up the stairs, their wood silent under his feet as he missed all the creaks she stood on. 

As they moved up two flights of stairs, the conversation shifted from her journey over from Jylland to her most recent published article. Denmark had read it. That was a shock. At this point in her career, not even her parents had read her latest article. He talked about it not as a family member would, but more in the manner of a fellow academic, one who already knew the discourse she was writing into.

He gave her little time to think about the implications of that as he pushed open the door to the room she assumed she was to be staying in. He confirmed as much before saying that he’d ‘let her settle in’ and that everyone was going to meet up in the kitchen on the hour, and then vanishing back down the stairs.

She took a step into the room she had been given. It clearly belonged to somebody else, rather than being a guest room. It was neat, but decidedly lined with the paraphernalia of a frequent inhabitant. The bed lay behind the door, becoming visible as she entered the small room. 

The three walls that had been initially visible were whitewashed, with only a trio of photo frames on the wall to give it a sense of personality. When she turned to take in the bed, she was greeted by a mural that filled the wall above the bed, red and white bedspread fading into a snow-covered scene. 

Astrid had been to see the exhibition of nation art when she had been invited onto the project. Denmark had made this. She wondered where the landscape duplicated onto this wall was. The brightly coloured, snow-covered houses could belong in any Nordic land. She couldn’t place it, but she assumed it was home for whoever’s bedroom she was in. 

Even with years of specialism in this exact area, she couldn’t quite determine an era that this bedroom fit into. The furniture didn’t follow any particular style, four-petaled flowers that Astrid couldn’t name bloomed up a chair leg, painstakingly carved into the dark wood. 

An eagle swooped its way over the chest of drawers as Astrid explored them. The bottom two drawers were filled with clothes, presumably those of whoever this room belonged to. The top two lay empty, waiting for her clothes to be stored for the next few months. She ran her fingers over the eagle as she pushed the drawer closed, marvelling at the feathers carved with such attention to detail.

Clothes stowed, there was little else for her to do other than to place the bag full of books and laptop by the safety of the bed. She took a moment to look out of the window, taking in the view of the small courtyard garden, occupied only by an empty washing line and some neglected pot plants before venturing back downstairs to find Denmark to ask if WiFi was available.

She hoped Denmark had WiFi. It had only occurred to her that he might not once she’d realised its absence. Denmark did have an Instagram account, so she figured she was fairly safe in assuming WiFi. But what if there was a member of the Danish government paid to run Denmark’s instagram? She didn’t think that she’d survive this project if there was no internet.

She found Norway clearing the table downstairs, cloth in hand as he scrubbed a rather battered but very ornate table. He paused in his cleaning to greet her, leaning his weight on the table and then frowning as it wobbled a little. He distracted himself from his table concerns to dig Denmark's router out from the small cupboard it lived in and show her the password.

There was a knock at the door as she typed out the password. Norway excused himself to open it, returning with a young academic who Astrid thought might be called Hanne. Norway had been speaking Danish when they'd spoken before but now there was a Norwegian in the room he spoke his own language and Astrid could only understand every third word. 

Astrid had a feeling that by the end of this project her Norwegian was going to be fairly impressive. She found herself alone in the downstairs space as Norway took Hanne upstairs to whichever room she would occupy. Denmark really had a lot of rooms.

There were a lot more shoes in the shoe pile than when Astrid had arrived, Hanne was probably one of the last to arrive. The clock on the wall was ticking its way towards the hour at which Denmark had said they'd meet downstairs so Astrid settled down to wait for the others.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of the first of the team. It was Jens. Astrid was most familiar with the Norwegian out of all of the team. He lectured up in Trømso, she had one of his books in her office. They'd met briefly at a symposium once, exchanging email addresses before proceeding to never contact each other.

'Jens, Hi!'

Last time they'd spoken they'd spoken in English because Astrid's spoken Norwegian really was awful. She felt a bit bad, abandoning both of their native languages in the same building as both of their nations. It felt somewhat rude. She did want to talk to Jens, though, his book had been helpful.

'Astrid right? Good to see you again. Any idea as to whose room you've got?'

'Somebody snowy. You?'

'I'm not too certain, the scene on my wall looks like something straight out of a nature documentary, but that could be anywhere.'

'You've got a mural too? Beautiful aren't they?'

'Thank you!' Denmark appears at the top of the stairs and shoots her a bright grin. He makes his way towards their conversation. 'Do you know where Nor's got to?'

He's speaking Danish, but slowly, rather than the rapid pace he'd kept during their earlier conversation. Jens seems to follow most of what he's said, although Astrid isn't certain.

'He went with Hanne', she hesitates a little on the name of the other Norwegian team member. She's fairly certain she's called Hanne, but not one hundred percent. Denmark nods anyway, so she guesses she's gotten it right or he doesn't know either.

'Nice. That's everyone here, then. Is the room alright for you?' Astrid nods, 'and you, Jens, room okay?'

Denmark's accent shifts a little as he talks to Jens, he sounds a little like he's impersonating Norway whilst still speaking Danish. It seems to work, Jens nods too.

There's the sound of feet on the stairs again and somewhere across the city, a clock tower chimes the hour. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said some rude things when I realised that there's a language barrier. I've got so used to just going of course they speak that language.
> 
> I'll give you bonus points if you can guess whose bedroom people are in or who is responsible for which bit of furnishing.
> 
> I am trying to make these academics bearable so that they make a great vehicle for character exploration.


	3. Coffee-less Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to set some archeological ground rules. It's a shame that today's narrator isn't listening.

A little after the turning of the hour, Norway settled back in his seat at the table. Almost all the seats were filled, the tabletop devoid of Denmark's paperwork. Iceland's was empty still, he was still wrapping up some work in Reykjavik. They were expecting him before the end of the month.

Denmark's chair was also empty. That was only because he was still moving around the kitchen. Given enough time, he'd settle down. Norway was content to wait. In a minute or so, he'd give him a look, if necessary.

Denmark had made human strength coffee that they'd distributed. It was not Norway's favourite, especially with winter coming on. A fully caffeinated Norway had suggested that his usual strength coffee might be a bit of a danger to the humans. Denmark, the villain, was being mean and following the risk assessment and refusing to make Norway's coffee. Denmark made the best coffee, Norway missed it.

As Denmark sat down, Norway made a face that said 'this coffee disappoints me' at him. Denmark ignored it, pointedly. 

Between everyone at the table, there were five different mother tongues. Norway did not fancy translating whatever Denmark said into two or three different languages. Denmark could translate into two of them, theoretically. The point was moot, however, to do this introductory talk via multiple languages would take all day and they'd all get bored. For now, the only language they all spoke fairly well was English. They'd have to fix that.

English wasn't Norway's favourite language to speak. It had gotten everywhere, though, and like sand introduced to a pair of shoes it was almost impossible to be rid of. 

Norway watched the humans as Denmark spoke. He noticed that Hanne stuck her tongue out just a little as she made notes. Einar was sat in a way that was slightly reminiscent of Iceland. Norway wasn't sure what it was but it made him miss his brother.

There is something about Aleksandra that seemed familiar to Norway. Maybe he'd met her before, he wasn't sure. They'd never really spoken. Maybe it's the Danishness. Denmark's people often feel a little familiar to Norway. It's not a pressing issue. Norway dismissed it and tuned back in to what Denmark is saying.

He's talking about letters. It makes sense, there's possibly up to a million of them upstairs. A couple of the academics will be sorting them out by date and sender. Most of them will be acceptable to go into museum archives. Norway is certain he doesn't need to keep letters from a long series of ambassadors and diplomats.

Denmark makes sure to emphasise that any letter signed off by a nation was to be kept separate. It had been agreed that perhaps some elements of history were best kept private. Norway knows for a fact that Denmark has kept every letter he's ever sent him. He doesn't want the researchers reading even the most banal of them. 

Denmark had sent him some interesting letters over time. He keeps them in a trunk under his bed in Oslo. It's the one bit of his memorabilia storage that he keeps organised. Sometimes he delves into the trunk to reminisce about certain events.

There's one letter in the trunk that is close to crumbling. He'd photocopied it a few years back, keeping the now battered copy in his laptop case. If anyone else were to read it, he thinks he might just die of embarrassment. 

He received it in 1905. It had been delivered to a freshly inhabited Oslo house. The postman had stopped to greet the new inhabitant, feeling drawn to introduce himself to Norway. Norway had liked that postman. He missed the way he whistled as he walked the road that Norway lived on.

It was a heavy letter, the first piece of international mail he'd received for almost a hundred years. He rubbed the envelope with his fingers, considering the new address, reveling in the absence of 'by care of Kongeriket Sverige' at the head of it. He recognised the handwriting easily, finding comfort in the way the letters sprawled their way over the page.

He settled himself in a room still bare and empty, intended to soon become his sitting room, to open the letter. He used the knife that he kept in his wedding ring to carefully cut through the envelope's thick paper. Denmark had drawn a sprig of heather across the back of the envelope, small and delicate. It made Norway smile.

The envelope's weight was somewhat explained once Norway had it open. It enclosed enough sheets of paper to make a small book. He unfolded the pile to be met with his little brother's face. Denmark had enclosed a series of paintings and drawings of Iceland and the children. A portrait of each for each decade that had passed since they'd been separated.

How he'd missed them all. Norway looked carefully at each one, trying to memorise the changes to his children. There were twenty seven overall. His children had grown up and he'd missed it. 

Beyond the final picture, one of Færøyene with a cat in Denmark's garden, Norway found the letter. It was stripped of all the formal trappings of the letters he'd received recently, direct and to the point. It read:

_Nor, _

_I hope you got my last letter and all those that came before. I haven't heard from you, but I hope that you have heard from me. Congratulations on your independence. We miss you so much._

_Is says that he doesn't care if you invite him, he's coming to visit you in your new house. Fær and Grønn agree. I suppose I must come to supervise them, and perhaps, granted your permission, I could visit you properly._

_Please send word of your health and of Sval. It would mean the world to me to hear from you. I have read your letters so often that the paper has grown weak and the ink has smudged with teardrops. Even little missives with dinner plans have not remained unscathed. _

_Every day without your sunshine has been gloomy beyond belief,even the brilliant glow of our children is no substitute for the light you bring to my life. I miss you. I have spent years just remembering the joy of your arms. God willing, soon I will be in them again._

_Send for me, please. _

_Infinitely yours,_

_Danmark._

The words were nothing special. They were just in Denmark's usual letter writing style. Norway kept this letter close for the joy he had felt to receive it. He had spent years in the cold silence of Sweden's house, receiving very little mail. This first letter was so warm and so full of love. Every aspect of it filled Norway with such nostalgic warmth whenever he reread it-

A touch to his hand. They were moving. Denmark was done talking, apparently. Norway had gotten distracted. He mouthed an apology to Denmark, sliding his own hand out from under his husband's to stand from the table.

Denmark leaned closer to Norway to say quietly, 'we are going to start now. Are you ok?'

'I'll live. Although I could do with some stronger coffee.'

'This is going to be a thing. Isn't it?'

Norway laughed, distracting himself from his nostalgia. 'It won't be if you'd let me make some good coffee'

'I'm sorry, but you'll have to take it up with the person who wrote the risk assessments. Someone called Norway, I think. Go on. They're all itching to begin.'

Denmark nudged him towards the door and the stairs it led to. Norway obliged him, ready to begin, pushing the memory of the letter to the back of his mind. He'd revisit it later. For now he had to keep academics away from discovering things that ran in a similar vein.

He was happy to share his knowledge and history, but any tokens of Denmark's affection were his and his alone. His own affection could be found all across the house. He found it in the banisters as he climbed the stairs, checking over his woodwork. Perhaps the humans would be so kind as to miss the tokens of his love when they went through his things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters in and the setup continues. We'll be into it soon.

**Author's Note:**

> This one will have chapters (uh oh, commitment). It’s the one that I’ve wanted to write from the off and so has been a long time coming. I have a feeling it will continue to be a long time coming but this will do for now


End file.
